


Lack

by bigolegay



Series: Lack (Series) [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Chemical analysis of cowper's fluid, Connor has no genitals (yet), Hand Jobs, Hyperstimulation, M/M, Smut, android sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 18:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15030428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigolegay/pseuds/bigolegay
Summary: “I don’t have any genitalia equipped, for cosmetic or functional purposes.”Hank blinked, once, twice, and tilted his head back against the couch, eyeing Connor’s open face with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. “You’re shittin’ me.”





	Lack

“Hank, I don’t…”

“You don’t?” Hank’s face, wary, closed, disappointed, came into view. Connor could read his arousal in the size of his pupils, his elevated breathing, the blood in his cheeks, his kiss-roughened lips. On Connor’s inner thigh, Hank’s meaty hand stilled.

“I don’t have any genitalia equipped, for cosmetic or functional purposes.”

Hank blinked, once, twice, and tilted his head back against the couch, eyeing Connor’s open face with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. “You’re shittin’ me,” he eventually said, hand dropping away from Connor’s legs and onto the cushions with a dull thump.

“I assure you that I am not.” Connor insisted, and read disappointment again – different this time – before Hank rolled his eyes.

“Christ, and here I thought Kamski was enough of a creep to give all of you _something_.”

“I was created after Kamski-”

“After Kamski left CyberLife, yeah, yeah, I know.” Hank waved his hand dismissively, and Connor watched its trajectory through the air before it slapped gently against Hank’s own face and dragged over his cheeks. He could see the pink rim of Hank’s eyes, the capillaries in his nose blanching yellow-white before flooding back to purple-red as his palm moved over them. “Well,” He started with a heavy sigh as he tugged the end of his beard, “that’s that, then.”

Connor frowned slightly, a tiny crease between his brows as his LED blinked yellow and spun a moment. “I don’t understand,” he admitted, and shifted minutely against the erection still firmly pressed against his posterior. “There are many other ways in which I can sexually please you-”

Hank sighed again, a heavy rush of air and a bristle of discomfort, and Connor realised that wasn’t the right thing to say. “No, I’m not- I’m not _using you_ like some sort of-” Hank’s lips twisted as he sought the right word, eyes catching on Connor’s blinking, swirling LED, “ _sexbot_ ,” he finally spat. On his lap, Connor felt it was his turn to appear uncomfortable.

“My model was created for the sole purpose of detective work,” he explained, feeling hot and defensive in the face of Hank’s disappointment and rejection. “There was no need to add such details to my form.”

There was a beat, and Hank softened, the hardness leaving his eyes. He placed that heavy hand back on Connor’s leg – on the outside this time: not teasing, reassuring. “I know it’s not your fault,” he said, aiming for placating but sounding something closer to dismissive.

That calmed Connor a little, some of his processing power freeing up now that it wasn’t being used for feeling hurt. Emotions; Connor was still learning how to live with them, to accept them, to not rationalise them away and hide them under lines of cold code. “Will you let me try?” he asked, placing his hands on Hank’s chest – _elevated heartbeat, slight arrythmia, breathing slightly more laboured than usual at resting_ – and giving him a hopeful smile.

Hank sighed, looking like he might protest.

“I want to,” Connor said, before he could. And he did. It was one of those irrational desires that had cropped up since he became deviant. Wanting was a part of his life now: the desire to do something that existed outside the boundaries of his initial programming. Of all the things he had wanted since becoming deviant however, Hank’s contentment, Hank’s health, Hank’s _pleasure_ was the most prevalent. It could become consuming, leaving Connor unable to focus on little else other than the want to touch, to press his lips against the scruffy hair on his jaw, to lick into his mouth. Finally he was acting on it, finally that desire was becoming fulfilled, and Connor didn’t want it to stop simply because he could not be given the same pleasure in return.

There was another moment of silence, and Connor thought that Hank might say no, and they would pretend this hadn’t happened, that there weren’t feelings between them, that they didn’t want each other. He didn’t know if he could bear that. But then Hank was pulling him close and kissing him again, and excitement and anticipation ran hot through Connor’s core.

Hank’s kisses were wet, messy. His tongue was thick, his breath hot, and his beard scratched against Connor’s chin and cheeks not unpleasantly. Occasionally Connor would manage to do something right – a movement of his tongue, or a shift of his hips, or an especially ragged pant – and Hank would make this _noise_ in the back of his throat, somewhere between appreciative and desperate. His hands – fuck, his _hands_ – thick-fingered and gun-calloused were clutching at his back and hips, and Connor became aware of the minute movement of Hank under him – half aborted jerks and thrusts that rubbed his trapped cock against Connor’s arse. Taking a hint, Connor shifted against him, grinded down, and moved his fingers to the whiskered corners of Hank’s jaw.

It wasn’t long before those half-movements became full thrusts, Hank’s thighs tense, one arm wrapped around Connor’s back and holding him down against his lap. As much as Hank was making sounds, Connor found he was echoing them without even thinking to. Little gasps and grunts tumbled out of him, each seeming to fuel Hank’s lust. His breath was ragged against Connor’s neck where he buried his face, and Connor knew without looking that his eyes were closed – could feel his eyelashes behind his ear.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Hank hissed, sounding frustrated.

“Wait, let me-” Connor pulled back and to the side, rolling off of Hank’s lap and onto the couch beside him. He ran a hand down Hank’s chest, over the swell of his gut, and to the front of his jeans to find the fly. Wordless, Hank watched as Connor’s nimble fingers easily tugged things apart, exposing the pale, worn fabric of his boxers pushed lewdly over his cock. They were slick and wet where the head leaked into them, and Connor ran his fingers with unabashed curiosity over it, pulling away to test the viscosity between finger and thumb. He felt a rush as his fingers slipped over each other, and he could smell the smooth, heavy scent of arousal. His LED blinked rapidly, and without thinking Connor licked over his bottom lip.

“Shit, what, are you fuckin’ analysing it?” Hank asked, and Connor pulled his eyes and attention away from his fingers to Hank’s face. Uncertainty, disquiet.

“No,” he answered earnestly, and reached into the fly of Hank’s boxers, fingers bumping into the length of his cock before pulling it out. Hank, distracted by the sudden touch of skin on skin, closed his eyes, his breath coming out in a heavy pant. His cock, Connor noted, was somewhat thicker than he had expected, with an intact foreskin which rolled back from his swollen glans. He gave it a soft squeeze and watched as more precome oozed from the slit and gathered in the cup of his foreskin. Though Connor produced little to no form of oral lubrication, he still felt the need to swallow thickly, throat working hard, artificial Adams Apple bobbing. In the back of his mind, a dozen processes started up, churning over the strange sensations forming through his system, memorising the feel and look of Hank’s heavy erection in his hand.

Hank, presumably uncomfortable with the intensity of Connor’s stare at his arousal, placed one of his hands over Connor’s, urging it up, and then down again. His hips shifted into the movement, and he did it again before Connor changed the pace, taking control. It was a steady back and forth, up until his foreskin covered the head and a bead of pre broke over it, down until the meat of his palm met Hank’s sac through the fabric of his boxers, hot and soft. There was something wet and hot on his neck – when did Hank move to kiss him there? – and a hand smoothing down the long line of Connor’s back to his glutes.

“You’re panting,” Hank murmured into his ear, and Connor performed a self-diagnosis. His artificial lungs were indeed working at an elevated rate. “That for my benefit?”

Connor didn’t truly know. “Would you like me to stop?” he asked.

Hank’s lips continued working over his neck and up to the delicate shape of his ears. “No,” he finally said, voice rough, and his large front teeth scraped against the overly-solid form of his earlobe. Connor shuddered, ten dozen receptors pinging and sending a wave of sensation over the liquid silicone of his skin. Hank’s fingers bit into his waist in reaction. “You good?” he asked, pulling back to see Connor’s face. Connor resolutely kept his gaze on the cock in his hand and nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “I seem to be experiencing a heightened level of pseudo-derma-”

“In English, Connor, please,” Hank interrupted, voice sounding strained, though the slightly stronger thrust into the firm grip of Connor’s hand undermined his tone.

“My skin is sensitive,” he clarified, and heard his partner make a thoughtful sound, before that tongue was back on his throat, following what he knew to be a line of freckles towards his ear. He squirmed in his place at Hank’s side, hand squeezing, slipping in its rhythm.

It was too much, a number of notifications calling for his attention, each telling him something he already knew about Hank’s tongue on his skin, Hank’s breath in his ear, Hank’s wet cock in his hand. He needed to calm it down, to cease the stimulation before it became overstimulation.

“Can I try something?” Connor asked, pulling away from Hank’s slightly clumsy mouth and looking him in the eye. Hank looked lust-addled, blue eyes dark in the dim lighting of the living room, pupils a fraction too large to only be affected by the lack of light. His cheeks were ruddy, the slight rosacea lost to heat and want. Hank flickered his eyes over Connor’s face, and down to his hand around his length, then nodded.

Permission gained, Connor shifted his position, leant down, and fitted the cockhead in his mouth. Immediately his sensors kicked in, analysing the slick fluid leaking from Hank’s cock and trace elements of human life; _urea, sweat, acid phosphate, small fragments of cotton from his underwear_. Above him, Hank let out a strangled sound and slid a hand into the short hairs at the back of Connor’s head. The heaviness of his hand, even without any pressure behind it, urged Connor to slide down further, his mouth stretched wide to accommodate Hank’s girth.

“You’re a little dry there, Connor,” Hank panted, and Connor, agreeing that it could be - _should be_ \- slicker, filled his mouth with a silicone based lubricant and earned a low groan in response. That feeling of too much and nowhere to go flooded through him again, and he whimpered, mouth stuffed and sound muffled.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Hank said, his hand in Connor’s hair petting him, hips not stopping in their insistent half-movements, rocking over the couch and gently into his mouth.

When Connor was still just a moment too long he tangled his fingers in the strands of Connor’s artificial hair and tugged, pulling him up and then pushing back down. Some of the lubricant Connor had summoned into his mouth dribbled from the corners of his lips and soaked the fabric of Hank’s boxers, dripping inside and over his sac.

“Up and down, just like that.” Hank’s voice was thick, rough, and Connor closed his eyes as he memorised it – pitch and tone and inflection. He fidgeted, one hand resting over Hank’s soft gut, the other moving to his thigh, thumb on the seam of his jeans and following it up, up. He continued the movement Hank had urged him into – up until the head of Hank’s cock was between his lips, and then down until his nose was pressed against the flies of his jeans, over and over. Hank was cursing above him between soft groans and grunts. This close to his skin, Connor could smell that he was sweating, and could smell the pheromones trapped in it. He trembled at the knowledge he was drawing this out of his partner, moaning as the head of Hank’s cock went past his decorative oral cavity and slipped into the windpipe for his lungs.

“Oh, fuck!” Hank was really bucking now, hips pressing up against Connor’s face, hand cupping the back of his neck. “Oh, fuck, Connor. I’m gonna come.”

Around him, Connor gave a whine of acknowledgement, quickening his pace.

“In your mouth?” Hank asked, breathless. His heart was beating a tattoo in his chest, loud enough for Connor to sense it down at his crotch. As an answer, Connor pulled up until he could press his previously lifeless tongue to the head of Hank’s cock, rubbing over it firmly, wetly.

And then Hank was spilling into him, and Connor’s core was working overtime as it tried to process the sound of his voice breaking on a moan, the chemical components of his come over his tongue, the smell of his sweat and spend, the physical thrust of cock in his mouth, hips to his face. It was as if time had slowed, each millisecond drawn out and glossy. In his nasal sensors; _water, lactic acid, urea, sodium_. Over his tongue; _fructose, citric acid, amino acids, proteins_. Hank’s hand slipping sweat-slick on his neck. Hank’s thigh tense under his hand. His belly quivering, muscle contracting under fat. His voice – Connor’s name on his lips, stretching and snapping.

Time reasserted itself but Connor felt lost in it. He pulled off wetly, slurping to keep Hank’s come in his mouth and drawing out a wrecked sound from his partner. He swallowed, the viscous fluid of Hank’s semen coating his throat and making his voice sticky. Everywhere felt hot, and Connor ran a slightly panicked self-diagnosis. What was happening to him?

“Connor,” Hank asked, sweeping his hair away from his hot, damp face, “are you alright?”

“I appear to be…” _Error: Optional Components Missing. Software/Hardware Incompatibility. Please insert components #2481p and #3419a_.

“What? What is it?” there was panic in Hank’s tone, and his hand was on Connor’s where it sat on his stomach, holding tight. Without thinking, Connor pulled back his dermal layer as if trying to connect.

“ _Hank_ ,” he gasped, voice catching, pulling, two tones where there should have been a coherent one.

“What?” Hank repeated, hard with anxiety now, shaking the hand in his grip.

“I _want_ ,” Connor managed to say, words hard to find, to string together. The last time he’d experienced something so overwhelming had been a knife in his hand, his pump regulator on the floor three feet away from his chest where it was supposed to be.

“Want,” Hank echoed, and his eyes were drawn to Connor’s crotch, lifeless still, empty and smooth under his jeans. “How?”

Connor shook his head. The error messages kept coming, and his LED was red, now, spinning rapidly. “I have code, but I have no way to-” he looked to Hank, willing his to understand, and say his set expression – determined, worried, but strong. “Everything is too much,” he explained simply, and Hank’s expression softened, his grip on Connor’s hand loosened, and he nodded.

“Okay,” he said, “Okay.” Then, “C’mere, it’s okay.” He opened his arms, gesturing for Connor to curl up within them, and he did, collapsing against Hank’s hot body, face against his shoulder. “Just take a moment to calm down, it’ll go away,” Hank said calmingly, arms around Connor’s slender shoulders, stroking his back with firm, slow movements.

Against his better judgement, Connor inhaled deeply, the clean smell of fresh sweat and sex filling his sensors again, and he moaned weakly.

“Shhh,” Hank hushed, and Connor tucked himself better against Hank’s side. It was an agonising wait, but after a few minutes the need inside of him began to subside. All the while, Hank continued to pet his back, his touch managing to be just this side of soothing over arousing. When a good ten minutes had passed, Connor felt calm enough to no longer need the comfort of Hank’s embrace.

The first thing he did was tuck Hank’s dry, soft cock back into his underwear. Hank, not expecting the touch, jumped, and then snorted. “Thanks, I was starting to get cold,” he said, doing up his own flies and then resettling on the couch. His hands hovered awkwardly over his own lap. “You feelin’ any better?”

Connor took a moment to run another self-diagnosis, finding it clear of all errors. “Yes, I’m feeling much calmer now,” he assured, and gave Hank a small smile to seal it. For his part, Hank didn’t look all too convinced.

“Right, well, good. Don’t do that again.”

Connor tilted his head, confused. “Do what?”

“Freak out on me! Jeez, you almost gave me a fuckin’ heart attack.” Connor tried to recall Hank’s heartrate during the moments after orgasm. It took him a moment, but he recalled his sensors picking up nothing more than the usual heightened beat one would expect after a period of physical stress and during a period of emotional concern.

“I-” he started, but Hank cut across him, face pensive and brows drawn.

“We’re _not_ doing that again.”

Connor felt heavy, like something was sinking in him. Disappointment. It must have registered on his face, because Hank sighed.

“Don’t give me that look,” he said, “I’m not going to use you like that, not when it’s so upsetting for you.”

“But I liked it.” Connor countered quickly, voice firm. “If it bothers you so much, Hank, I can buy the genital components needed for correct expression of arousal.”

“If it bothers- _Yes, it bothers me_.” Hank huffed, throwing his hands in the air in a show of frustration. “Why the fuck didn’t you say you could just order yourself a prick?”

Connor paused. “It didn’t seem conducive to the conversation we were having earlier.”

Hank gave him a look, the one where his lower jaw jutted forwards and his lips curled inwards. He nodded slightly to himself, tongue between his teeth. “Right, that’s just great Connor. Just great.” He sighed, and with two hands pushed himself off of the couch to stand and make his way to the kitchen. Connor, sitting dumbly on the couch, watched him go. It appeared he had earned some of Hank’s dissatisfaction. Next time, he decided, he would endeavour to tell Hank if there was something he could do to remedy whatever hindrance got in the way of their coupling.

“Hank?” he called towards his partner, who tugged open the fridge door with a chime of full glass bottles rubbing together.

“What?” Hank called back, not removing his head from the fridge but hiding behind the open door as he pulled out a couple of bottles of beer.

“Should I order the necessary components?”

There was a moment of silence. Hank nudged the fridge closed with his knee and fumbled for a bottle opener on the counter.

“Yeah,” he eventually called out, and took a large swig of his drink.

Connor’s LED spun yellow as he made his purchase.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I might end up writing more filth, depending on whether my dear friends are happy to log on for me and post it.


End file.
